Liath's Beginning.
Liath gave a long, drawn out sigh as she allowed a finger to slither across her leather open-finger glove, a ripple of undeniable trepidation causing a slight shiver to run through the hybrid. Her domain stood seperated, divided from all else but still containted the echoes of past wars and eliminations of old. This was her Utopia. It was the closest she had been to the Mortal world that Liath had been in centuries, but now that the enemies were shifting, Liath couldn't stay quite so far removed. Her position in the Mortal realm was untenable, but living on the edge of mortality would not alter her world; it was a reasonable path. Although, Liath's grasp on reality was tenuous on even her best days.
Liath's dull grey eyes sparkled unpleasantly as she contemplated the implications on her position. The consistent, unflinching attention was disquieting and uneasy. If she had been able to, she would have destroyed her antithesis eons ago had it not meant the sacrifice of damning the Universe to the Abyss eternally. Liath had that power; the power to annihilate, obliterate; destroy. She also carried the power to restore life and reinstate world. But Liath was loyal to her allies. She would not risk using her powers and ending her immortality simply to end the lives of the dark ones.
But even here in the unstable opulence of her realm - which she dubbed Cyradis after her late partner in crime - she could sense Their shadows beating unendingly at the barrier she had placed betwixt the Mortal realm, Cyradis, and Tartarus - the Realm of Darkness.
Musing in silence, she finally clasped her hand around the glove and yanked it off, letting herself tumble serenely off a golden, body-sized leaf onto the black grass. Golden globules of light danced betwixt the black strands of nature's mystique. Whilst a globe floated around her nose, Liath chuckled and then laid her head back onto the ground, staring up at the golden-tinted moon. In the Mortal realm, the moon was a ghostly, pallid white and in Tartarus is was a wine colour, but in Cyradis it was a glorious gradient of white to gold, ever changing. The amethyst-coloured sky housed sea-green clouds which dripped the golden snow slowly onto the ground. These were the remaining captive souls of the Fallen - the ones who had died upon the plains of Cyradis.
The Fallen were harmless, and friendly to Liath, and they had sometimes defended her.
--- To be continued.